


Illicit in Harlem

by pumpkin_kitty_kat



Category: Villainous (Cartoon)
Genre: 1920s, 1920s slang, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Comments are much appreciated please and thank you, Crimes & Criminals, Definitions for Slang Included in Author's Note After Each Chapter, Developing Relationship, Drinking, Drinking & Talking, Family Issues, Gangs, Hayburners Debate™, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Sex, Internalized Homophobia, It will make sense later I promise, Italian Mafia, Jazz Age, M/M, New York City, Not Beta Read, Organized Crime, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slang, Slow To Update, Speakeasies, Tags May Change, Warnings May Change, multi-chapter, school and stuff gets in the way a lot ya know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2019-11-12 05:45:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18004973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pumpkin_kitty_kat/pseuds/pumpkin_kitty_kat
Summary: Flug wasn't exactly your average person, but from his perspective, he led a reasonably normal life. Sure, he comes from a distinguished family and works as an inventor of all things, but he wasn't exactly someone you'd see on the streets and go "Look! It's Flug!" He lived the same way any ordinary middle-to-upper-class American did in the 1920s. He worked hard all day and then partied just as, if not harder, at night. Minus the partying, of course. And if you asked him, it was becoming rather dull. It didn't seem as though any fancy jazz club could fill in what his life seemed to be lacking, either. But this was the roaring 20's! Where was the electricity in his life? The adventure? Didn't he deserve some excitement, too? But Mr. Slys soon discovers that you should be careful what you wish for when he befriends a certain man one fateful night. It doesn't take long before he grows fearful that he may have just bitten off more than he can chew.





	1. Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS FIC IS CURRENTLY ON A LONG HIATUS. I HOPE TO RETURN TO IT EVENTUALLY, BUT AS OF RIGHT NOW WHAT YOU SEE IS WHAT YOU GET.  
> \--------------------------------
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this fic! It's going to be a multi-chapter one (my FIRST multi-chapter fic, mind you, so please try to be patient with me!) so this is only the first part of many. I'm really excited to get this show on the road since I liked this idea I had a whole lot, and I hope you guys are just as excited as I am. But before we get started, here's some important slang you need to know:
> 
> Big Cheese: An important or influential person. Means the same thing as big shot.  
> Dogs: Feet.  
> Foot juice: Cheap wine.  
> Gin Mill: An establishment where hard liquor is sold; a bar.  
> Hooch: Bootleg liquor.  
> Joint: A club, usually selling alcohol.  
> Keen: Attractive or appealing.  
> Speakeasy: An illegal bar or establishment that sold alcohol during the prohibition era.  
> Stuck on: To have a crush on.  
> Swell: In the context I use it in, a rich man, or like a rich man.
> 
> Since this is the first chapter, I'd also like to take a short moment to thank my friends (Jackie and Nick) for encouraging me to go through with this idea, and for fallinforaguyfelldownfromthesky who has served as a source of inspiration while drafting my ideas and plot for this fic and while writing it <3

As always, the streets of the City were filled with the hustle and bustle of many, _many_ people. The standard, black Model Ts covered the streets from sidewalk to sidewalk and the talk of young, ecstatic people consumed the air. Artificial lights basked everything in an incandescent glow, giving the world an almost warm, fuzzy feeling. But the emotions that everybody felt were _anything_ but warm and fuzzy. The floods of people up and about on the streets late at night; the red, pink, and orange and green signs that hung in the air: **_this_ ** was the newly discovered nightlife in New York City. An exciting and wondrous thing that everyone who could afford it was itching to get a taste of.

 

Everyone except for Flug.

 

All Flug really wanted was to head out and get a couple of drinks after a long day of work. To ease off the nerves, if you will. Today had been his most unproductive day yet this week, and it was getting to the point that if he didn’t come up with another invention soon he’d be stuck between a rock and a hard place. Not ideal, if you asked him.

 

There was one dilemma in this plan of his, however: drinking was illegal. And not just illegal by some simple law, it was illegal according to the _constitution_ . Why did they decide it was a good idea to prohibit alcohol in the country using the 18th amendment? Flug had no idea. But thankfully, even despite this, getting something to drink really wasn’t too big of an issue. If there was one thing Flug had organized crime to thank for, it was the many speakeasies that they’d developed throughout the city. It made getting a beer a _lot_ less of a hassle than it otherwise would have been! He’d simply head over to the Cotton Club which somehow, despite all the times it’s been shut down for illegally selling liquor, managed to stay open. He’d thought to question why, but considering all that gangs and mafias are known for doing to people that stick their noses where they aren’t supposed to, he decided it best that he didn’t.

 

Harlem- and consequently, the Cotton Club- was not far from his house at all, living on 1035 Fifth Avenue in Manhattan (being an inventor and being smart with money paid off, allowing Flug to afford such a place). He could practically walk over there if he really wanted. But, getting to sit back and relax while taking a taxi sounded a lot better to Flug’s tired feet and mind (even despite the taxi fights that had been happening lately (don’t ask Flug, it’s a long story that he didn’t even know all the details to)), and so he went with that option.

 

And just as would be his luck, he saw the classic canary yellow of a taxi coming up the road amongst all the traffic and bustle. He called for the Yellow Cab taxi and hopped in the back.

 

“G’evening!” The cab driver chirped in a cheerful tone. Such was to be expected of a Yellow Cab driver: Hand-picked for their charm and cheerful personality- supposedly, at least.

 

“‘Evening.” Flug replied unenthusiastically, shutting the door and fixing up his suit and hair as he settled into his seat.

 

“Well, you’re dressed up nice and keen tonight,” the cab driver commented in the same optimistic tone after a short moment, undeterred by Flug’s uninviting nature. “Got someone you’re stuck on?”

 

Flug chuckled lightly to himself, nervous. “I wish!” The words felt unnatural coming out of his mouth, as they always did. Call him crazy, but Flug had just never found himself all that interested in ladies. Maybe he simply hadn’t found “the one” yet, but for now, he’d just have to pretend like he was searching for someone. And it would never fail to make him just the least bit uncomfortable every time he had to lie about it. He ran his right hand through the back of his hair.

  
The cab driver smiled warmly at Flug’s reply and laughed lightly along with Flug too. “Pal, I can’t say I’m not in the same boat as you. Ah, where am I taking you?”

 

“Just over to Harlem.”

  
“Ah, Harlem, eh?” The cab driver started up the car. “Which part of Harlem?”

  
“Do you know where the Cotton Club is?” Flug asked hesitantly.

  
This made the driver pause for a moment and quirk a brow as he turned to look back at Flug. “What’s a man such as yourself doing calling a cab? You seem swell.”

  
Flug shrugged at this. “It’s been a long day; as short as the walk is, I don’t think my dogs could handle another step. Calling a cab seemed the easiest and quickest.” He spoke tiredly, his exhaustion evident.

  
The driver gave Flug a curious look for a second or two more before turning back around to face the road. He shrugged. “Fair enough.” He then sped off, heading in the direction of Harlem.

 

The loud hum of the city was slightly muffled in the car, but the noise the engine made more than made up for the absence of sound left behind. Flug and the kindly cab driver sat in silence as Flug longingly stared out the window at the bustling, budding metropolis surrounding him, casting a soft glow on his face.

 

“So,” the cab driver started again after a minute or two, once they were up and mingled with the traffic of New York, “the Cotton Club. I assume you aren’t there to get any average foot juice.”

 

Flug turned his head slightly to look at the driver and chuckled to himself. “Considering their prices, I’d hope not! I hope to get myself _at least_ something _decent_.”

 

“You been there before?” The cab driver inquired, curious.

  
“Eh, once or twice. I’ll tell you what, they don’t sell the hooch your everyday joint or gin mill sells, and for that I’m thankful. Otherwise, I’d just be throwing away my clams.” They shared a laugh and left the conversation at that, upon no further input from Flug nor the cab driver, who had sensed his standoffishness. Flug was never much of a conversationalist.

 

It wasn’t much longer before they arrived before the Cotton Club, the lights of the sign basking the surrounding block in a bright glow.

 

“A clam for the trouble?” The cab driver asked, turning himself around and holding his hand out to Flug, just as he was preparing to get out.

  
“Ah, yes of course.” He handed over money to the man and swiftly stepped out of the cab. The driver sped off, and Flug was left standing there by himself in front of the energetic jazz club, sound from inside spilling out onto the street. He sighed to himself and turned around to head inside.

 

Jazz music didn’t just _fill_ the halls, it utterly consumed it and then regurgitated it back out again, seeming to pour itself into the heart and soul of every living creature in the place. Aristocrats talked, laughed, ate, drank and danced all throughout the place, giving rise to an elegantly dressed pandemonium. It was flashy, it was loud, it was pretty much everything Flug _hated_. But, this is where the rich went to get a drink. And Flug, being just that, came here to get a drink.

  
He attempted to find of secluded of a spot as he could and sat down and ordered a drink akin to what we would know as the South Side Fizz (a light drink with a dark history, as some would put it). He drank and minded his own business, not paying much attention to the chaos around him, simply choosing to sit in his own bubble of silence. He’d occasionally fiddle with and readjust his suit: a cake-eater style suit with a slim-fit, made of heavy gray-blue wool. Essentially: The classic style of suit for young men at the time.

 

A few thoughts crossed Flug’s mind as he just sat there, taking things in. An eerie stillness came over him, and even with the loud drone of the people surrounding him, he felt as though he was by himself. He lightly sighed to himself and dwelled over how he had been feeling about his life lately. And how exactly did he feel about it? Well, he felt as though his life was rather, well… dull. It was a bold thought coming from someone sat in the middle of perhaps one of the _wildest_ clubs in America, where only the rich and famous were allowed, but it persisted anyway. The reason for that being, well, the kind of excitement people got from hanging out in the Cotton Club wasn’t the kind of excitement Flug _really_ craved, deep down. He wanted something _adventurous_ , something _thrilling_. He didn’t know what it was, but he desired it deep down in his dark, little soul nevertheless, and he’d be damned if he didn’t found out what it was.

 

A decent amount of time passed, and with how late it was getting, some alcohol freshly in his system, and the fact that he was already fatigued beforehand, he was ready to pass out. Just as he was about to call it quits, pack up and head home, someone sat down across from him at his small two-person table for the first time that night.

  
Flug had been staring down at the drink in his hands at the time, so when Flug glanced his head up to look at who just sat across from him, he was curious and a little startled to find a young man roughly his age, with neatly combed and styled jet black hair and haunting dark brown eyes. He was wearing a gangster style suit (so, essentially, rich but possibly very deadly), and carried himself with an air that screamed he could buy the whole world if he really wanted. Not to mention he _looked_ like the big cheese, too. After scanning his eyes over the man, he looked up to find him looking directly at him, eyelids half closed and a grin on his face that was almost too wide to be natural (not to mention _all_ teeth). And were those… slight fangs? Flug mentally shook it off, blaming it on the alcohol (even though he was only lightly buzzed, as he hadn’t even finished his drink yet and it was a light drink in the first place). His expression _cried_ evil at the top of its lungs, and to Flug, it was both terrifying and… intriguing?

 

Flug was hesitant to say anything, waiting for the young man to explain himself first.

 

The mysterious man placed both of his arms on the table, his hands tangled together in front of him in an almost fist shape and his elbows resting on the soft white cloth that covered the small, circular wooden table. He was positioned in a way that almost made it seem like he was presenting Flug with a deal.

 

“Say,” the man finally spoke up, his voice unexpectedly dark, deep and gravely, “you look a little lonely and dejected, sitting over here all on your own. Perhaps I should keep you company?” When the man spoke, the background noise of all the other people seemed to eerily drift away. He didn’t have to raise his voice over the other people whatsoever; he was perfectly articulate speaking at a normal conversational volume. And the way he spoke his words seemed sweet and considerate, but in the fakest way possible. Every single possible thing about this man told a tale of trouble.

  
Flug lightly scowled at him, crossing his arms across his chest and joining his legs in a figure four leg cramp.

 

“Aw, don’t be like that!” The man leaned a little closer to Flug. “After all, I personally believe- if you were to present me the chance- we could make _particularly_ great pals.” The man damn near purred out that last part, and it was clear from the get-go that he wanted something from Flug. And somewhere, deep down in his mind, the sensible part of Flug was setting off all sort of red flags. "Stop!" "This is a BAD idea!" "Do _**NOT**_ pass go!" But alas, Flug had stopped listening, for he discovered something about himself that he didn't think he was ever aware of before:

  
Flug _loved_ to play with trouble.


	2. He Was His

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. You don't need to tell me it took long enough, I'm already aware. Nevertheless, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! I can't tell you much about this chapter's quality, however. I wrote a large chunk of it while sick :,)
> 
> P.S. This chapter is very description-focused, so there's no 1920s slang present in this one that you need to know.

 

Kenning Flugslys. Or “Flug” for short. At least, that was the alias he’d created for himself. Flug never talked about his real name, but  _ he _ knew the truth. It was near impossible to keep the truth from a man such as him.

 

\---

 

He sat comfortably on the expensive, leather-padded, sangria-coulored back seats of his glossy, jet-black 1921 Rolls Royce Silver Ghost. With a careful eye kept on both the lackey that was driving the car and the surrounding city, he sat slightly hunched over, feet square on the ground with his legs slightly spread apart and hands entwined together in a fist shape in front of him. The bright glow of the metropolis outside grew brighter as they drew ever nearer to their destination, the direct light coming from outside causing intense shadows to form inside the back of the car. He had considered taking his flamboyant 1923 Heine-Velox (since dear old Gustav Otto Heine’s original plan for the model flopped and he ended up having to give the few example models away after the initial $25,000 price tag, only 5 existed in the world), but thought it best to take his getaway car instead. After all, his  _ dearest _ Flug would be located at the Cotton Club, a place owned by a rival crime leader of his. Well, “rival” was a strong term, really. They weren’t on bad terms, but he knew full well that an unannounced visit on his territory could set off the other man. But don’t think he was  _ scared _ of the man at all! Of course not. Anyone taking on  _ him _ in any manner was a foolish decision on their part, really. He didn’t mind reminding everyone just how much power he held over them at  _ all _ . However, after having just found someone of potential after a  _ long _ time of searching, for them to be caught and killed in the cross-fire would be…  _ undesirable _ , to say the least. So, tonight was all about laying low. And that, among other reasons, was the entire point of the disguise that he now adorned.

 

He adjusted the lapels of his suit jacket, shifting around then and again in an attempt to get acclimated to this temporary camouflage. For how long “temporary” dictated was debatable, but at least it wasn’t forever. He didn’t think he could stand the rest of eternity in this…  _ flesh bag _ . He grimaced to himself at that thought, the slight sharpness still left in his teeth on full display.

 

His face fell back to its normal resting position after a moment and he pulled his Elgin pocket watch out of his suit to check how they were doing on time.

 

“ _ Shit…” _ he thought to himself. If they kept it up at this pace, they’d miss him, no doubt. It was already almost 11:30 P.M. The man in question wasn’t the type of person to stay out until the breaking of dawn. Near midnight was already pushing it, for him.

 

Although, it wasn’t exactly like there wouldn’t be opportunities other than this one. But he was an impatient man and wanted to get started as soon as possible.

 

“ **Step on it.** ” He barked the command at the lackey, who was quick to pick up the pace and push the car to give almost all she’s got. He took this minute to relax a bit and lean back on the seats, enacting out his plan inside his head. Even despite who he was, he couldn’t be too prepared for this. Convincing Flug would be a careful and precise science. Take things too slowly and there was potential that Flug could lose interest. Take things too fast, and it’d be off-putting. And not just in the sense that someone you barely know asking you to do what he had in mind for Flug was off-putting, but in the sense that he may or may not have done some prior…  _ research _ before meeting the man. If he were to let that fact slip somehow it would be less than ideal, suffice it to say. And that wasn’t the only variable, either. He had to present himself as dangerous enough to attract that dark side of Flug he knew he’d seen, but not too troublesome as to drive the man away completely. He also had to keep their interactions on the down-low as to not let it slip that he had taken an interest in this man, since failing to do so would result in an immediate high-stakes competition for him. Such a thing could result in either: A) Flug being forever deterred by the pandemonium and violence surrounding him or B) Flug would end up getting killed because “ _ if I can’t have him, no one can _ ”. He knew from experience, he’d seen it happen before. But even despite all this, he wasn’t very concerned. He knew that, at the end of the day, Flug was already in the grasp of his claws. Whether he liked it or not, because he had caught his attention, Flug belonged to him now. Nothing could change that at this point.

 

He was  **_his_ ** .

  
That thought made him smile devilishly, just as they were reaching the bright neon lights of Harlem’s Cotton Club. The car slowed to a stop in front of the establishment and, though he kept a straight face, his excitement grew. He made to get out of the vehicle, before freezing in his motions to turn and look his lackey in the eye. The look he gave the driver was threatening in every sense of the word.

 

“If the word spreads that I’m frequently visiting this establishment, you’re  _ dead _ . I will not hear a  _ single _ alibi leave your mouth.  **_¿Me entiende?_ ** **”**

 

The lackey chose not to say anything, instead opting for just silently nodding in fear. He kept his composure on the outside for the most part, but his eyes were a looking glass that revealed his true feelings. And the driver was utterly  _ terrified _ . The man knew better than to not be.

 

He chuckled to himself. 

 

“ **_Good_ ** .” He snarled, low and threatening.

 

He stepped out of the vehicle, now amidst the general populace. Once he quickly turned on his heel and slammed the car door shut, the lackey rapidly stepping on the gas.

 

He scoffed. The whole point was to _not_ garner attention, and that had turned a few heads, no doubt. No matter, the man would most certainly pay for it later.

 

Humans. Always making mistakes.

 

He brushed off and tidied up his suit, the bright neon lights of the Cotton Club behind him casting a wonderous and playful glow. With any luck, Flug would still be inside. The thought of being so close and yet so far to his goal was both exhilarating and aggravating. It made the blood pump through his new veins. Adrenaline. Was that what they called it? Or was it something else? He didn’t care either way.

 

Making a grandiose entrance (as usual), head tilted high and gaze intimidating and powerful, the cacophony present within the club now fully assaulted his ears. He could never stand such uncoordinated nonsense; it disgusted him. But for now, he’d stand it.

 

With an inconspicuous smile plastered on his face, he made his way through the club. Shuffling his way through hordes of people and maneuvering through the dance floors. He pushed and shoved, and was nearly battered around himself.  _ Nearly _ . Being in such close proximity to such vulgar people was  _ revolting _ , but he endured. He had a purpose for being here, and he would not be deterred. Even if it meant mowing down all these many, many rows of people  **himself** .

 

Amongst all this navigating, he was searching for somewhere quiet and secluded: Where his desired man would most likely be hiding. And sure enough, away from the large, bustling crowds and congested dance floors, was Flug. This part of the building was almost sectioned off, being nothing more than an ordinary room with the doors kept open. You could still quite clearly hear the noise coming from elsewhere, but it was dulled down compared to the rest of the place, being relatively quiet. It was dimly lit, comforting, and the vibe it gave off almost sultry. The space had nothing more than a few tables, some couches, and other such places to sit and chat. Flug sat in here alone (aside from a scattering of people that would pass through), at a table made to only seat two and a drink in his hand. It was a light drink, and he hadn’t even finished it. The look on his face spoke of being a place far, far from here, and his gaze was fixed solely on the drink lazily placed in his hand. He was distracted, lost in his thoughts.  **_Perfect_ ** .

 

He sauntered over, like a cat stalking its prey. Which is perhaps an overused expression in a sense, but in this particular instance, it applied more than words can illustrate. Every move he made was careful, calculated. And upon advancing closer, he could tell Flug was on the verge of leaving. He caught him just in the nick of time. Yesss,  _ good! _ A wicked, toothy smile broke out on his face from the excitement, and he invited himself to sit across from his target. His posture was malicious, and his intentions just as much so.

 

He made sure to keep his emotions toned down, however, and held a half-lidded expression on top of the grin. He was just getting started, after all. 

 

When Flug looked up and came eye to eye with him, he appeared surprised, to say the least. Whoever he had been expecting, it certainly wasn’t him. However, Flug did his best to quickly conceal his shock, instead adopting false impassiveness.

 

“Say,” he spoke after a beat, feigning care and consideration, but all the while speckling in his true intentions, “you look a little lonely and dejected, sitting over here all on your own. Perhaps I should keep you company?” 

 

He had caught the man’s attention at this point, but he seemed unamused. To the untrained eye, at least. He knew better. He could see the gleam of interest in his eye, the tiny, quick intake of breath upon catching sight of him. The way his eyes scanned his form, curious, drawing everything in.  _ Soaking _ it in, locking it in a safe box in his mind. Flug was taking note, which is  _ exactly _ what he wanted. The man crossed his arms and folded his legs, appearing uninterested and unamused. Closed off, guarded. But in truth, the man was watching, observing, waiting for his next move. Even if he didn’t know it himself.

 

“Aw, don’t be like that!” He leaned just a tad, looking Flug in the eye. Making sure to get his point across, to make himself known. He’d have the man remember this if nothing else. “After all, I personally believe- if you were to present me the chance- we could make  _ particularly _ great pals.” He purred out the last part, a deep, vibrating sound. He couldn’t help himself. He was  _ ecstatic _ .

 

Especially because he could see the gears turning in those eyes. The conflict raging in that pretty little head of his. He was already winning this battle, and it was just the first night. If he kept this up, he would no doubt win this war with Flug.

 

When the gears stopped turning and Flug now opted to analyze him up and down- the  _ entirety _ of him from head to toe- he damn near jumped out of his chair. The man’s interest was piqued, his eyes inquiring and entranced. Everything was going exactly according to plan. And it was  _ delightful _ .

 

“Go on.” Flug spoke hesitantly, after a moment. He uncrossed his arms and legs and opted to place his own hands on the table, resting his face in his hand. His eyes were half-lidded but also contained a certain spark.

 

“You may address me as  _ Cappello Nero,”  _ Black Hat said, extending his hand as if he were making a business deal. The name wasn’t very original, but that was done on purpose. The whole point of this was slowly introducing Flug to who he was, luring him in, before ensnaring him in his poisonous web. And he intended to do just that.

 

Flug sat up straighter and put his hand back down on the table, laying his arms flat. “Kenning Flugslys. But you can call me Flug.” He leaned in himself to meet Black Hat halfway, in the middle of the quaint little table. 

 

Foolishly, he then took his hand and shook it, therefore sealing his fate for the rest of eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I am very busy and also very inconsistent, so I have no guarantees regarding when the next chapter will come out. I just know it'll come out at SOME point, and it'll also be very dialogue-focused, so you get to look forward to that!


	3. An Update

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An apology? An explanation? It's whatever, I guess.

Hey guys. Sorry to disappoint, but unfortunately this isn't a new chapter. It's more of an... explanation/update. I just wanted to say that I'm sorry I haven't come out with any new chapters in a long while, but I think I'm going to put this fic on hiatus, at least for now. Getting inspiration to write for this fic has been _hard_ lately. It's not that I've lost my initial likeness for the concept of the fic itself. Of course not! I still really like this idea, and I do, honestly, really really want to write new chapters. It's just, in light of all the things that have happened with certain fans recently, I've been losing my passion for this pairing (Black Hat/Flug). So, yeah. Hopefully I'll get back to this fic eventually, but for now, I need to focus my energy on other things. I hope y'all understand <3

 

P.S. If any of you follow my other works, then I'll have you know that the shorter stories and requests I still have in my inbox that are related to paperhat won't stop. They're short enough that I can kind of push through the lack of inspiration, but for a big fic like this it's just not possible for me.


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